Blood of Angels (30 page)

“Thanks, Sergeant. I owe you.”

“We'll handle it.”

I click off the phone. “So Jazz is OK.”

“You're daughter's going to be fine, Thomas. It sounds like
you
somebody was worried about.”

I nod. “Before? That was my ex-wife. She's concerned our daughter still has a father when this is over.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

I walk into the living room, and collapse on the couch. “If I could bring Bridges to me, I would. But he's not playing it that way. He's checking off a list of things I care about.”

She sits next to me. “What's left?”

I shake my head. “Lots of things. The whole staff at the DA's office. A good steak. The Atlanta Braves.” I pause. “And you.”

She smiles. “Yeah, but I'm here with you.”

“I'm just saying, if it goes down, I'm not letting you do something stupid and heroic.”

“You know something, Dennehy? I'm not the kind of woman who takes orders very well.”

“So I noticed.” With that, it's over; I pull her against me and kiss her as hard as I can. My hands are trembling. Hell, my whole body is trembling. It's Carl and Indy and the truck and shit-faced, grinding fear over what Bridges is going to do next, wrapped up with eighteen months of untapped lust, and it breaks like a dam over the Reverend Towns. She answers it hungrily, kissing me back so ferociously that I wonder what anguish and frustrations she's been keeping behind her own dam. Whatever they are, it's enough to unravel her as completely as I come apart, and we wrap around each other until I can barely breathe. I can feel how strong she is; her strength ignites me, and I push back against her, reveling in her strength. “Jesus,” I say. “Get this—”

“It's in the back.”

“My God.” Her hands unbuckle my belt; she pushes her fingers down into my open fly, and I moan, pressing my hips forward. Somehow, her shirt is pulled over her head, her bra undone. What happens next is a pressing, flexing blur, part release, part aggression. It's sex and abyss, blended into one. My pants are stuck on my left ankle, hers are draped over the back of the couch. Her teeth are in my shoulder, her fingernails in my back. We move together, naked, until she opens her eyes wide, her breath coming in great gasps. Her hand comes up behind my head, and she pulls my face down into her neck. For a long time, nothing exists but us.

When it's over, neither of us moves. I breathe in her scent and feel her skin against me the length of my body. I'm crying a little—I don't know when it started—but I know it's over Carl, not what just happened. I haven't wept for him, and I have to, just a little, or I'll go nuts. I roll over on my side and kiss her. “You're staying alive,” I whisper. “No matter what.”

“People staying alive is what I'm all about, Dennehy.”

For a moment—a few seconds—I get it; for Fiona, there's life, and then there's everything else. As long as we're alive, there's the chance for a moment like what just happened, and it's so healthy and affirming and fucking gorgeous that for a few seconds, I don't want to deny it to anyone, no matter who they are or what they've done. Maybe it even has the power to heal a monster. I kiss Fiona on the mouth, still getting used to how she tastes, still alive to the nuance of the shape of her lips. “The Reverend Fiona Towns,” I whisper, and I kiss her again. There's something holy about her, even when she's naked, or maybe especially when she's naked; I've seen how it works for her, how even a damaged life can be sacred. But in the same moment, I know it doesn't work that way for me. When I think about the photograph of Carl, I lose my mercy. I know that in the right circumstances, I am fully capable of killing Charles Bridges, and that if that moment comes, something in me will feel profoundly grateful for the chance to do it. I pull her against me and whisper in her ear again: “The Reverend Fiona Towns.”

 

THE AFTERNOON PASSES
with agonizing slowness. Against the euphoria and comfort of each other's presence is the torture of the silent phone. Every hour is both a relief and an increase in tension; we've survived, but we know Bridges's end game has moved toward us, too. When, at nearly 5:00 p.m., nothing has happened, Fiona makes an announcement. “He could do this to us for days, Thomas. This is exactly what he wants.”

I drag my eyes off the phone. “I know that. It doesn't change anything.”

“I'm going to the store. We have to eat.”

“You can't go alone, and I'm not leaving.”

“It's a cell phone, Thomas. It travels.”

“We'll order pizza.”

She walks to me. She has on one of my T-shirts, tucked into her black jeans. “There's a sandwich place right up the road. We could order out and bring it home.”

I nod. “All right. But we go together.”

It's only five minutes to the restaurant, and I go in with Fiona while she orders. Fifteen minutes later we're back in the house, devouring the meal. I haven't eaten properly for a couple of days, and it's catching up with me. But there's still no call. At 7:30, I use my home phone to ring my cell, just to make sure it's working. The cell phone rings, and I hang it up.

“Maybe it's a bluff,” Fiona says. “He just wants you to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life.”

“Maybe,” I say, but I don't believe it.

At 8:45, I force myself to stop pacing; at 9:30, I'm ready to throw the phone out the window. Stress, combined with lack of sleep, are wearing me down; I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize the man looking back isn't capable of denying himself sleep another night. My body is going to demand its due.

At 10:45, I can't fight it anymore. “I've got to sleep,” I say.

Fiona nods. “Me, too.”

“Look, I can take the couch.”

“If that's what you want.”

“What I want is you six inches away from me. I just didn't want to presume.”

She smiles, and I know we're past that. I take her hand and lead her into the bedroom. I plug the cell phone into the charger and strip down to my shorts. I flick off the light and climb in bed. Fiona pulls off her jeans and T-shirt, and climbs naked into bed next to me. I lie on my back, Fiona on her side beside me, facing me. “Nobody's spent the night with me in this bed since my ex-wife.”

“How long ago was that?”

I smile. “God, I don't know. Three years.”

She takes my hand and lifts it to her lips. “Get some sleep, Dennehy. You need rest.”

She flicks off the light, and I close my eyes. The last sound I hear before I fall asleep is the sound of Fiona's voice, whispering into the heavens.

 

SOMETIME IN THE NIGHT
, I open my eyes. I'm breathing heavily, lying in my bed. I realize I have the sheets in a vise grip, and I let my hands relax. I look over at Fiona and see her watching me in the dim light. She's up on one elbow, her hair falling down below her head. Her body is in shadow, but I can see the contours of her arm, her flat stomach, the rise of her breasts. She reaches over and lets her fingers stroke my chest. “You were dreaming.”

“Yeah.”

She lifts my arm and climbs inside it, laying her head on my shoulder. I sigh and let myself relax back into the bed. The clock says 1:15. “It's OK now,” she says. “Go back to sleep.” Her breathing is steady and deep. I close my eyes, feeling her weight, letting her presence calm me. In a few minutes, I follow her back down into the dark. There are nearly two hours of peace. A little after 3:00 a.m., the phone rings. Charles Bridges has set my world on fire.

MY HAND IS ON
the cell phone before I'm fully awake. By the time I flip it open, every synapse of my mind is on alert. It's Sarandokos's number, and Rebecca is on the line. She's hysterical. I can't understand her because she's not using complete words, much less complete sentences.

“Calm down, Bec. Tell me what's happened.”

“It's Jazz. She's not in her bed.”

My body turns to ice. “What do you mean? Did you search the house?”

“We've searched every inch. The policeman is looking outside. It's like she just vanished out of thin air.”

“I don't understand. The policeman was there all night, right?”

“Yes. I sent her to bed at nine o'clock. Michael and I sleep just down the hall. The alarm was on. There's no way anyone could have come in the house without our knowing.”

“Stay there. I'm coming to you.”

“What's happened to our daughter, Thomas?”

“I'm coming. Stay together.”

I hit the lights and see Fiona is already pulling on her clothes. “Not you,” I say. “You stay here.”

She pushes her feet into shoes. “I can help.”

“I don't have time to argue, Fiona. You're not coming.”

“I can talk to him. You can't.”

I pull on pants and a shirt and head for the doorway. “If you're not near him, he can't hurt you.”

She grabs my arm and pulls me around. “It's your daughter, Thomas. Are you willing to let something happen with me here doing nothing?”

There's no time to think. All I want is to get Jazz away from the monster. “I could lose you both. That isn't going to happen.” I see her bend over to pick up shoes, and I use the moment to grab the gun off the nightstand and push it behind my back. Fiona straightens up and stands in the doorway to the bedroom, resolute. I walk up to her and take her face in my hands. “Help me, Fiona. Help me by staying here and letting me do what I have to do.”

“You mean that if I'm there, it might be harder to kill him.”

“I mean that if I'm lucky enough to find him, there won't be time to have a discussion about it.” I step past her, leaving her in the doorway. “Don't open the door to anyone. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

I move through the house, jump in the truck, and hit the ignition. The truck roars to life, and I pull out of the garage, barely missing the rising garage door. I slam the truck into drive and lay a strip of rubber as I head toward President's Club and Sarandokos's house. I punch “911” into the phone, and dispatch answers. “This is Thomas Dennehy, with the DA's office. My daughter, Jasmine, has just been kidnapped. I need the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation notified immediately. The address is twenty-two Wentworth Place, in President's Club. You got that?”

“I'm not sure…”

“You
got
it?”

“How long has your daughter been missing, sir?”

“She's been
kidnapped.
Are you following me here?”

“Sir, if you'll just calm down…”

I hang up and call Rayburn at home. He answers, bleary and fatigued. “David, it's Thomas.”

“Thomas. Where have you been? Paul showed me the photograph.”

“Did you get the trap-and-trace?”

“Ginder signed the court order at one-thirty. We faxed it to Sprint from his office.”

“Jazz has been kidnapped, David. Bridges has her.”

“My God. Where are you now?”

“On my way to Sarandokos's house in President's Club. I need you to wake up somebody over at TBI, David. The best they have.”

“Done. Listen, Thomas, how did—”

“Hang up and call, David.” I slap shut the phone.

I brush a hundred miles an hour as I haul down a nearly empty I-65. In less than fifteen minutes I pull into President's Club and squeal to a stop at the gate. I punch in the entrance code, and the gates slowly grind open. I squeeze through with inches to spare, turn left a few blocks up on Wentworth Place, and see Sarandokos's house at the end. The front door is open, and the yard is lit up with floodlights. A single police car is parked out front; the officer stands beside the vehicle, talking into his radio.

I screech to a halt, and the cop gives me a warning look. “The girl's my daughter,” I say, showing him my ID. “Tell me what you know.”

The officer—a young kid, low on the seniority totem pole—nods. “The lady came outside about forty minutes ago. She was real upset, kinda hysterical.”

“You were out front the entire night?”

“From seven-ten on. The lady says she put the girl to bed at nine, so whatever happened was after I got here. I didn't see anything.”

“Any vehicles in or out?”

He pulls out a small notebook. “A black Mercedes came into sixteen Carmel Lane at nine-twenty. That's it. I even cataloged the cars on the street, just to note any changes.”

“And?”

“There's a red Porsche in a driveway at thirty-one Crooked Stick, a Lincoln Town Car at twelve Sunset Road, and a Hertz panel truck just around the corner.”

I look up. “Panel truck?”

The officer shrugs. “It's legit. There's a for-sale sign on the house where it's parked. I asked a neighbor, and he told me the people are moving.”

I look up at the house and see Rebecca standing in the doorway, silhouetted by light. She comes down the stairs, but she's no longer sobbing. She's cold, like she's made of metal. She walks toward me like an ice sculpture, so brittle a tap in the wrong place will shatter her into pieces.

“Who has our baby, Thomas?”

“His name is Charles Bridges. I sent him to jail seven years ago.”

“To jail.”

“Yes. For negligent homicide.”

A tremble escapes the stony stillness of her face. “Then he's a killer,” she whispers.

“He killed Carl.”

She wobbles, but when I reach out to steady her, she slaps my hand away.

“Find the most recent photograph of Jazz that you have,” I say. “Do you have any of her hair?”

“Her hair? No.”

“Then get her toothbrush. We need her DNA, Bec.”

Her eyes glisten with angry tears. “Michael is inside.”

I sweep past her up the limestone stairs and see Sarandokos in the doorway, dressed in a thousand dollars' worth of casual clothes. “What the hell has happened to Jasmine, Dennehy?”

“Tell me about the alarm, Michael.”

“You'd damn well better get her back.”

“The
alarm,
Michael. Tell me how it works.”

“All the windows and doors on the first floor are armed.”

“How about inside motion detectors?”

“We have them but don't turn them on. Maria sleeps downstairs.” He lifts his chin. “I'm going to offer a million-dollar reward for Jasmine's return, Dennehy. I've already called Channel Four. It'll be on the TV this morning.”

“The man who took Jazz isn't going to be impressed by money, Michael.”

“Everyone is impressed with a million dollars, Dennehy. But if it will help, I'm willing to make it two.”

“I need to see her room.”

Michael swivels and leads me through the foyer and up the marble staircase to the second floor. He opens the fourth door on the right, and we step into Oz: to the left is a wall of carefully stacked toys; to the right, a collection of porcelain, miniature horses; ahead, a pink iMac sits on an antique desk. The bed is unmade, but otherwise, the room is so immaculate, it's hard to imagine an eleven-year-old girl living there. I walk to a large window; it's locked from the inside. I slide open the lock and reach down to pull it open, but it doesn't budge. I put my weight into it, but the window only slides upward a couple of inches with a pronounced squeak.

I turn to Michael. “Let's go over this again. The ground-level doors and windows have an alarm.”

He nods.

“This window is locked from the inside, and there's a cop sitting in a car out front.”

“Yes.”

I turn back to the window and stare out. Lights are coming on across President's Club, as the residents become aware that there's a disturbance. I hear Bec come in the room behind me and turn to see her standing in the doorway, holding a framed picture of our daughter and a toothbrush. Anger and grief wash over me, and I force my eyes away in an attempt to keep my mind clear.
Hang on, baby. I'm trying to get to you.

“Did Jazz know how to turn off the alarm?” I ask.

“Of course,” Sarandokos says. “She's seen us do it a thousand times.”

“When did you turn it on?”

“As soon as you called. Right after I hung up.”

My God. Bridges was already in the house when he called me.
Slowly, I turn back to them and look at Bec. “He was here, Bec. Bridges was already inside the house when you turned on the alarm.”

Bec's face crumples into revulsion. “What?”

“It's a big house, Bec. You have three outside doors on the back side alone.”

“Four,” Sarandokos says.

“He could have been somewhere in the house most of the day. A closet. Anywhere.”

Bec stares at her husband. “He was in our house, Michael.”

“Sometime last night he must have pulled Jazz out of her bedroom, frightened her into silence, and forced her to leave with him.” I look at the bed and imagine Bridges leaning over my daughter, forcing a knife to her throat, telling her he'll kill her if she makes a sound.

Sarandokos points to the window. “A car's pulling up. Someone's coming.”

We go downstairs and see an unmarked Ford parking in front of the patrol car. Two men in street clothes get out. One, a short, bookish-looking man with mussed, brown hair and glasses, goes to the trunk. The other, a tall man with a narrow face and jet-black hair combed back, walks directly up the entryway and shakes my hand. “Agent Myers,” he says. “You're Dennehy, correct?”

“You're TBI?”

He shakes his head. “FBI. Kidnapping the daughter of a government official warrants federal attention.” The other man comes up behind, carrying two aluminum cases. “This is Newton. He's our bloodhound.” Myers steps past me and introduces himself to Sarandokos and Rebecca, who are just behind us in the foyer. “We need a table, chairs, good lighting,” he says. “Do you have any coffee?”

Michael nods. “I heard Maria making some already. This way.”

Sarandokos leads us through the house to the dining room, located just off the kitchen. We take places around a large circular mahogany table. Newton sets the aluminum cases on the floor and starts setting up a laptop computer on the table.

“The DA filled me in where he could, but there were a lot of holes,” Myers says. “Tell me about this guy Bridges.”

“Intelligent, with a medical background,” I say. “He's highly organized, plans several steps ahead. He very nearly brought down the entire DA's office. He also managed to commit two murders with virtually no physical evidence linking him to the crimes.”

“Where was the girl seen last?”

“Her room,” Bec says. “I put her to bed at nine.”

“I saw an alarm panel near the front door,” Myers says. “Was it armed?”

“Yes,” I answer. “There was also a policeman outside all night. And the second floor is too high to scale.”

“From which you conclude?”

I pause, considering. “Realistically? There are two possibilities. One is that she walked out on her own. That would take a strong lure.”

“You don't look convinced.”

“Jazz is smart, and she's had the ‘don't talk to strangers' lecture a thousand times. Plus Bridges has until recently been impersonating a homeless man, complete with lack of shower, full beard, and tattered clothes. Jazz wouldn't get within a mile of him.”

“And the other possibility?”

“That Bridges was already in the house when the alarm was turned on. He forced Jazz out one of the back doors and left the subdivision via another street. The cop out front wouldn't have seen anything.”

Myers nods thoughtfully. “First things first. The DA said you expect Bridges to call again.”

I lay my cell phone on the table. “He's been calling this number using stolen cell phones.”

“I've already talked to Sprint,” Newton says. “They're waiting to hear back from us.” He picks up my phone. “Nokia 475. That's good.”

“So what's the plan?”

Newton looks up from plugging in cables. “If Bridges is stupid, he'll call us from a GPS-equipped phone, and the Sprint tech will tell us exactly where to find him.”

“Bridges isn't stupid.”

“We still have a good chance to locate him with cell towers.”

“How good?”

“We triangulate his position by measuring the difference in the time it takes for his signal to reach the three closest cell towers. A little calculus, and we have him to within fourteen hundred feet.” He plugs in a cable to the base of my phone. “With more towers, I can get it down to nine hundred.” He grins. “Once, I got the actual house.”

“Trust me,” Myers says, “if Bridges calls, Newton will find him. Meanwhile, I want to see all the exits to the house. Let's go.”

Sarandokos leads Myers and me through the extensive home. Each door is an alarm point, with a keypad. Myers stops at a door leading from a sunroom out onto the back patio. “So these can be disarmed individually?” he asks.

Michael nods. “You punch star, the alarm code, and the entry number. You get fifteen seconds to open and close the door. It resets after that time.”

Myers looks out into the backyard. “What's behind that line of trees?”

“Another house,” Sarandokos says. “The street it's on dumps into the main road to the gate, just like ours.”

“Any reason to believe Bridges is an alarm expert?” Myers asks.